Here to collect

 

Here’s the deal.  There’s a bug-eyed addict sitting at the bar, and the roaring engines of a platoon of motorcycles have congregated outside.  It’s comical to think of anyone talking things out at this point.  Five bearded gorillas walk into the bar, leaving a dozen or so outside.  The addict’s eyes dart from the gang members coming through the front door, to the bartender, to the back door through the kitchen, back to the gorillas, and finally on his remaining drink in which he gulps, causing his eyes to strain in their yellowing skins.  The bartender rolls the volume dial all the way up on the stereo and Ray Charles hollers to his lost love while five men pick one man clean off his barstool and carry him all the way out the front door without the man’s feet touching the floor once.  It’s the type of place where no one lifts a single finger in protest.